The spinning metallic orbs appeared out of nowhere just beyond the horizon. Reminiscent of Ezekiel’s wheel, or the ancient parables in various scrolls that the ancestors foretold of other galaxies or extraterrestrial beings in their crafts from them, in search of precious minerals only my planet generated. The third inhabitable planet from the sun causing our Earth to produce the mineral gold, and the original people of it, to be blessed with an even more important resource: melanin.
Some say it was an ancient, yet futuristic race of otherworldly beings named Annunaki. These beings beheld awesome technology and high science that afford them the means of conducting alchemy, architecture, and vibrational-wavelength usage. These beings had been here before, and were here again, seeking out something or someone. The face of the ship emerged from the sky taking up the width of Texas across the skyline. They pierced the atmosphere with a rumbling, quaking roar of terror that attracted global attention. The uproar, panic, chaos, and confusion around the planet were next-level catastrophic.
Robbery was becoming a regular normalcy, grocery stores were regularly looted now, guns & ammo were more important than mosques and churches to some. Bunkers were built, weapons of mass destruction were constructed, and most of all, alliances were formed. Of all the military forces: marines, navy, air force, army, Green Berets, Rangers, SEALs, Special Forces, the only hope for all of us was not amidst these heroic organizations, it was with a Villain.
There I was, rolling a joint, listening to Outkast, ATLiens CD “Greetings, Earthlings”, the intro to ‘2 Dope Boyz (in a Cadillac)’. I retrieved my lighter and set fire to my concoction, inhaling deeply and allowing my lungs to expand with the potent smoke. I had my whiskey bottle of Jack Black glued to my palm like a lifeline. I took a chugalug of the amber liquid to the neck as the turmoil, torment and tribulation unfolded. That is when my phone rang, bringing me back to the severity of the here and now.
“Falshioen, where the “F” you @, always gone! You are either high, locked up, or nowhere to be found! Your kids need you; your mom and dad need you; I need you!” I took another pull and inhaled deeply, swallowing the pungent THC smoke to maintain my inebriation. My muse, Shatias’ ranting, and disrespectful tones were really just her way of displaying fear. I got it. I had been a deadbeat for the last seven years of both our ‘marriage’, as well as with my seeds. My daughter Destiny would always be Daddy’s little girl, my sun Messiah was close yet, I felt the strains on our relationship and bond. My youngest sun, Prophet had developed a learning disorder because of my absenteeism. The way I was coping with my failures as a husband and father was to overindulge in the bottle and weed, among other poisons. Inadvertently, cursing the next generation with the same gaping hole in their soul as myself and my sperm donor.
Opposed to argue, enter myself into the rigmarole of the yelling match, or be disrespectful, I just patiently listened.
“Do you hear me, Jason? The world as we know it is about to end, and you are still nowhere to be found! Your children are terrified, well Zion is, Messiah wants to see them up close. You know your mini-me ain’t scared of NOTHING, just as innocent and curious as who knows what. We need you, Jason! I need you! Can the Villain come out to play?”
Her statement awakened something deep inside my essence; this was both a wakeup call, and a call to arms, I heard it. I felt DNA begin to metamorphosis and the blood in my veins to change to nitroglycerine. The self-actualization of me having a divine decree over my life hit me like a slow bullet-Sade’. The laws of time, space, or gravity no longer was I bound by. I sprang into action, so stealth, a crater the size of the state of New England left behind in my wake, debris, and particles periodically falling back to the Earth for what seemed like a hailstorm. I burst through a gaggle of migrating geese, disrupting their southern-bound arrowhead formation. Some were quaking in terror, others defecating, making me zig zag zig through the sky effortlessly so as not to tarnish my outfit’s cologne of trees and Jack Daniels.
The higher I soared the more sober I became. Above the clouds, then the ozone layer, I felt my genes surging with power, much like a battery recharging or a plant bursting through a ton of concrete, just to bask in the rays of the sun, my Supreme Being aura becoming more austere as I reached the aurora borealis. The otherworldly transport modules were in an armada formation like dark ovular pimples in the black atmosphere. Much like roaches with the lights on, they tried to go stealth mode with some translucent cloaking mechanism, yet my sight beyond insight would not allow me to unsee them, or unfeel their strange vibrational humming all about.
For some reason, I felt the need to retrieve my vintage boom box. The one ‘Radio Raheem’ had in Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, with the Giant speakers, two tape decks, all analog, nothing digital. Using deductive reasoning, I figured that my sonic energy boom enhancement and the right tunes or frequency could thwart the destruction of the known world. Let’s hope I am right. With the strength of Ra, I zipped through time and space to where my boom box was.
(Quantum Leap)
I had warped dimensions through the space-time continuum and found myself at 146th and Sedgewick in the Bronx, New York. Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five, the Sugar Hill Gang and James Brown, Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye were all blaring through mostly all the boom boxes up and down Fordham Road. From Soundview to Edowall that was the vibe.
I saw b-boys spinning on their heads, doing windmills, backspins etc., on cardboard boxes they had flattened out. I saw the boom box I required to save the future world from the past. It was in the grasp of Melle Melle himself, a young ragamuffin revolutionary, of raw rhyme illustration. I approached with caution, so as not to startle the brother by descending from the sky.
“Peace brother, you are a legend back where I’m from, can I ask you a favor?”
“A legend you say? I’m just a brother from the projects with a story about the ghetto.”
“And your ghetto story will create a whole new genre of music, to inspire all music to mock and try to emulate.”
“Is that right?” He replied, looking me up and down reluctantly.
“My name is Jason, and this might sound strange, I need your help.”
“My name’s Melle, what’s up brother, what you need?” People were gawking at me and beginning to crowd around so I cut to the chase. I eyeballed his boom box, which was blaring “The Message”, just a few feet from us. It had the bold graffiti colorful tag on the front of it. The duct tape to keep the D-sized batteries in place on the back was a testament of the wear and tear it had undergone and not missed a beat or a tick.
A solar flare emitted from my skin like a rocket on the surface of the sun. The brother was startled a bit, taken aback by my cosmic otherworldly chemistry.
“Yo, take this as a gift, soul brother from the future, keep Hip Hop alive, forever forward for The Furious Five.” He handed me the vintage boom box and dapped me up five on the black hand side.
“Right on the real,” I announced.
“Death to the fake,” he replied.
With our brief gesture of timeless solidarity, I was off back through space and time, to our present clear situation of danger, I respecognized that I had been bestowed with cosmic powers over the present darkness, spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. With great power and perception comes great responsibility.
(Quantum Leap)
My vision inhaled the phantom fleet of alien invaders whose force fields were thwarting all manner of aerial assaults with ease. Surface to air missiles, satellite high-powered tractor beams, B-2 Spirit stealth bombers, FA-50 fighter jets, Apache fighter copters, all futile to their superior arsenal and technology. I fazed through the space-time continuum like an electric current to the receiver with Shatia on the other end, my phantom death kiss stifled her fears and conversation instantaneously.
“Oh, hey, yo ass needs to stop doing that,” she said clad in a thin one-piece nightie with no bra and panties, a bit out of breath from the passionate French kiss.
“Daddy,” Prophet said.
“Peace dad,” Messiah said, they both ran to hug me tightly with their momma. Destiny patiently waited for her own special cuddles and hugs. Although brief, this was like a portion of paradise, in spite of the present position of peril.
“Yo where’s the Purple Tape and Shatia?”
“Messiah nem was playing with all that old stuff, look in the closet next to the kitchen right there, in that box up there. Where you get that ancient ass stereo from? Looks like something from the late 70’s, early 80’s.” I just smiled as I rummaged through the Timberland shoebox of cassette tapes. Wu Tang Forever, solid, but no, The Chronic Dr. Dre’ good, but no, Nas, “It Was Written” stellar, but no, umm, Twista, “Adrenaline Rush”, dope but no, Spice-1 “Eastbay Gangster”, another dope joint, but no Dang.
The fate of the whole world was hanging on a string and I could not find the key component to manifest salvation. “Liquid Swords” was timeless, but no, “Daddy, you looking for this one?” Destiny said, with a nimbus around her hands, holding the purple cassette tape. It was not Prince Nelson, “Purple Rain”; it was Raekwon, “Only Built 4 Cuban Linx” … This was just what I needed.
“How did you know smookie butt?” I inquired.
“Well, I was listening to it like you said, on my phone because that tape recorder fossil thing does not work anymore, and I just figured why this would be important someday, plus purple is pretty.”
I gave her a forehead kiss, as I pressed eject on the boom box, and slid the cassette into place after taking out Melle Melle’s.
“I like the Wu Gambinos’ one a lot dad, a lot of different people and no one sounds alike. I am listening to “Rainy Dayz” in my ear pods as we speak, I think it’s gonna be my fave, she killing the singing part and I understand the struggle both rappers are going through in their verses, this and Icecream.”
Destiny was way ahead of her time and had been here before.
“Go save the universe daddy, I love you.”
“I love you too Akirah. Messiah, Prophet, Shatia, see ya’ll soon, insha’ Allah.”
They waved as I dematerialized with my boom box in tow in pursuit of straightening or gaining understanding, with these mysterious invaders. I weightlessly floated like Omni-Man with my boom box in tow to the source of our Earth’s threat. Nuclear warheads were on the brink of launch, which prompted me to get my ass in motion, cue the music.
The alien forces had gone to hand-to-hand combat, their ground forces decimating to and fro across the known world. The bird’s eye view I had did little to compare to the gore and malicious acts that were unfolding before all of humanities’ eyes. The screams and weeps for help were deafening. The alien’s pulsar vibration cannons imploding, incinerating and/or erasing faces, heads from shoulders or leaving their targets as ash or gooey puddles. My laser vision froze a line of the bigheaded invaders as long as the Great Wall of China. I easily spiraled headlong through them, their iniquities shattering like glass crystals being hit by a bowling ball. To and fro this went on for what seemed like hours, until I pressed play on the boom box and time stood still.
I transmuted my body into a sonic energy conveyor. Basically speaking, I became a bass boost that would allow the boom box’s music to be heard throughout the known world, as well as intergalactic. It was a domino effect at first, one after the next, nodding their heads slowly forth, and back. Exponentially, increasingly, they started reversing the death toll and rebuilding everything they had destroyed throughout their invasion. There was a brood of them, like an ocean of roaches flooding the face of the earth as if a colossal infestation, all rescinding three, four, five high on to of each other’s shoulders in a giant cipher around underneath me.
Their leader descended from their monolithic craft to greet me in the universal symbol of wisdom. Its two fingers and thumb coming together one over the other in a ‘W’ like the Wu Tang symbol.
“Zzurp, Plurb Unis, Wu Tang Forever!”
The pitch-black skinned life form said to me, extending his two fingers for dap, “Rainy Dayz” blasted through my every pore. Around its neck was the purple tape, we were a galactic nation under a groove getting down just for the funk of it.
A dog barking off in the distance awakened me. It was still dark outside and Alaskan weather during winter was treacherous. Above the snow-laden ambience, the colors of the aurora borealis illuminated all of them. Stuck inside icebergs, glaciers, all of them frozen solid as a testament that my exploration through time and space was not a figment of my imagination. My muse Shatia, our sons Prophet and Messiah, my ex-wife, Samara, and our daughter Destiny all living together in harmony in one village.
It was a dream inside of a dream; I came to with a butcher knife clutched in my palm, my hand broken from the frigid cold. Around me, in many directions, sprawled out like origami were victims here and there. The snowy landscape was a pinkish slushy form the entire melee; I had obviously blacked out again and was engaged in the fight of my life. The heartbeat of agony stemming from my broken hand, rapidly proving the price I had paid forward.
Bloodshed for mayhem to manifest survival tactics and any price/ somewhere between darkness and light/ grisly, grotesque, gore as the sacrifice/ off to Purgatory or paradise/ So many cadavers on ice.
Another Day of Never-ending Night
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